The Porch Light

Peter hadn’t spoken to his father in three weeks. Their last phone call had ended badly when his father asked how things were going at work. Peter had just lost his job, and what began as a simple question turned into an argument. He said things he regretted, hung up, and spent the next few days telling himself he would call tomorrow.

His father left him a couple of messages, but Peter never knew how to answer. He wanted to explain himself, yet every apology he rehearsed sounded like an excuse. By Friday evening, he was tired of being alone in his apartment. He picked up his keys and decided to take a drive. Without quite admitting where he was going, he turned onto the road that led to his father’s house.

The porch light was on when he arrived. Peter parked by the mailbox and watched his father through the kitchen window, drying a plate with a dish towel. For a moment, he considered leaving. Then his father looked up, saw the truck, and came to the front door. “Well, come on in,” he called. “Your supper’s getting cold.”

Peter followed him into the kitchen, where a plate of meatloaf and potatoes sat across from his father’s plate. He stopped beside the table. “Dad, I’m so sorry about what I said. You were only asking, and I took it out on you.” His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “I appreciate you saying that, son. Now sit down. Tell me what’s been going on.”

They talked through supper and stayed at the table long after the dishes were empty. When Peter finally stood to leave, he glanced at the extra plate. “How did you know I was coming tonight?” His father smiled. “I didn’t. I’ve been putting that plate out all week.”

At the door, Peter hugged his dad and promised to call the next day. As he walked to his truck, his father called to him, “You don’t have to wait until Friday, either.”